


The Glory of Love

by jaythenerdkid



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:23:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythenerdkid/pseuds/jaythenerdkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"And what's gonna happen if we start dating? I mean, really - what's gonna happen?"</em> A series of vignettes exploring the relationship Danny and Mindy could have, based on their conversation at the end of <em>Be Cool</em>. This one has a happy ending, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glory of Love

He's never,  _ever_ going to tell her this - you gotta let a man have his pride, after all - but as it turns out, she was right.

* * *

 

_we fight -_

 

They're walking back to their apartment in silence. Again.

She hates it when he does this - withdraws into himself, pulls those walls up, shuts her out. She can feel the anger radiating from him like it's a physical force battering her, and she can feel her hackles raising in response because whatever he's mad about this time, it is  _definitely_ not her fault.

Finally, tired of the silence, she breaks it. "What did I do this time?" she asks, not even trying to keep the bite out of her voice.

He says nothing, continuing to walk as though he's alone, hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Well?" she demands, and when he still refuses to respond, she steps in front of him and pushes against his chest. He stops, refusing to meet her eyes, every muscle rigid with angry tension.

"It's nothing," he says harshly, pushing her hand away. "Let's just go home."

"Oh, this is nothing?" Her voice is rising now and people are starting to stare but she doesn't give a damn. He wants a fight? Fine. She'll give him one. He doesn't get to shut down like this and let her feel alone while he's right next to her. It's not fair and it's  _never_  fair and he knows it and if he wants a scene, then damn it, she'll give him a scene so fucking grand they'll have to nominate her for an Oscar. "You're just acting like some child throwing a - a  _tantrum_ over  _nothing_?"

"I'm not throwing a tantrum," he says through clenched teeth, but she can sense that his iron control is slipping. "I said it's  _nothing._ Quit making a scene."

"You know damn well you're throwing a tantrum," she retorts. "What is it? What did I do this time, smile too brightly at the hot dog guy? Because I know this concept is foreign to you, seeing as you're completely incapable of conducting yourself like a regular human being, but _normal_ people sometimes smile just to be polite!"

"Do normal people bat their eyelashes and act like lovestruck teenagers just because some random guy held the door for them?" There it is - the control is gone and now he's gesticulating in that way he has, all grandiose and melodramatic and so fucking  _Italian_ she wants to roll her eyes. "Could you have made it any clearer that you were undressing him with your eyes while your _boyfriend_ \- " he spits the word out like an epithet - "was standing right next to you?"

She can't believe him. She  _literally_ can't believe him. " _That's_ what this is about?" she exclaims, subconsciously mimicking his gestures and almost whacking a passer-by in the face. Ignoring her protests (what was she doing eavesdropping on them anyway?), she closes the space between her and Danny and looks him in the eye. "You're jealous because some rando held a  _door_ for me?"

"I'm not jealous," he snaps, "and it's not because he held a door for you, it's because you acted like he was Prince fucking Charming while I was _right there next to you._ "

She throws her hands up in disgust. "Why do you have to overreact to everything?" she asks. Damn it, she is  _not_ going to cry about this. She is not going to give him the satisfaction. "I was being  _friendly_ , you asshole, which you would know if you had tried it even once in your miserable life!" She steps back, breathing hard, not sure whether she wants to slap him or storm off or both.

Apparently, he's having the same internal struggle, because he steps back too. Suddenly, she feels like he's a thousand miles away, even though there's barely a yard between them. There's a hardness in his eyes that makes her want to beat her fists against his chest until he stops being such a - such a  _jerk_. That's what he is. He's being a jerk and he does this all the time and she's sick of it and she - 

"You know what?" she says, sighing, the fight suddenly going out of her. "Forget it. Whatever. I'm sorry I was friendly to that guy. I'm sorry for ever noticing anyone but you, I'm sorry for damaging your fragile ego by  _smiling_ at people, I'm sorry for everything." She pushes past him, brushing her hair in front of her face so nobody can see the tears starting to form in her eyes.

"Hey, where are you going?" he yells after her, but she doesn't have the energy to reply, to tell him that this is all so much harder than it's meant to be and she doesn't even know why they're trying.

* * *

 

_\- but we make up -_

 

It's late at night when she slips inside, careful to make as little noise as possible. She might be a little drunk, or a lot drunk - she lost track after the first few shots of tequila. (Maggie is a good friend to have around during a relationship blow-up emergency, but a bad, _bad_ influence when it comes to responsible drinking.) She stumbles out of her heels, muffling a curse as she almost twists an ankle, sets her purse down on the kitchen counter and pads softly on stockinged feet through the dark apartment to the bedroom, where she stops at the doorway, leaning against the frame to steady herself.

He's asleep, or he appears to be. His tie (the black skinny raw silk one she bought him on their one month anniversary that she knows he only wears for her) is atop a heap of clothes - his shoes, his jeans, his charcoal grey button-down, his leather jacket. He's lying almost face-down in bed in his t-shirt and boxers, one arm strewn over her side of the bed, sheets tangled between his legs, and in that instant the last vestiges of her anger melt away.

She must have made a noise, because he's stirring slowly, twisting in bed until he's staring up at her blearily, his features illuminated by the watery orange light of the street lamp outside. His eyes seem a little red-rimmed (has he been crying?), but when he sees her, he smiles crookedly.

"Hey," he says drowsily. He blinks groggily at her like he's seeing her for the first time. She steps inside, coat slipping off to join the pile of his clothes on the floor (whatever, she'll get them in the morning), and she makes her way over to the bed, sitting down next to him.

"Hey," she replies, taking one of his hands in hers. It's warm and a little damp as always, but it was freezing outside and her hands are cold so she doesn't mind.

He peers at her from beneath those ridiculously long lashes and chuckles softly. "You're drunk," he says, his thumb drawing little circles against her palm. She feels the tension flowing out of her at the familiar gesture.

"Only a little," she protests, shaking her head, but she has to stop doing that because it's making the room spin. He chuckles again and reaches up with his free hand to caress her cheek.

"Maggie?" he asks.

"Tequila," she replies. The room pitches and spins a little and she moans. "Which I am never drinking again, and you do not have to remind me that I said that last time Maggie took me drinking, because firstly I remember, and secondly you know I don't mean it because tequila is delicious and makes me feel like I'm in  _Sex and the City_."

"C'mere," Danny says, pulling her into bed with him. She has a vague notion that she should undress or something, but it's too much effort right now, and besides, his body is warm and comfortable and fits perfectly against hers. She rests her head against his chest and sighs contentedly and for a while they just lie like that, enveloped in the silence and the darkness.

"I'm sorry," she says eventually. Her words are muffled against his chest, so she pushes herself up until she's resting on one elbow and looking him in the eye. "For walking off like that. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

He pulls her down for a kiss and she notes that he tastes faintly of scotch. She sighs against his lips, enjoying the feel of them and of his hand cradling her head and his warm, firm body beneath hers. She pulls back and stares into his eyes and even though it's dark, she can see them shining with that little spark she knows is just for her.

He smiles ruefully. "I'm sorry for being a jealous old man," he says. "You really were just being friendly. I just - " he looks down, fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, clears his throat, looks back up at her. "I just want you so much, and I'm scared of losing you."

She kisses him again for that, a little harder this time, moaning softly when his lips part and their tongues meet and his callused fingertips run up her back, exposed by her backless dress, and come to rest at the nape of her neck. When she pulls away this time, she notices the beginnings of tears in his eyes. She curls up against him again and his arm snakes around her waist, pulling her close against him.

"You're not going to lose me, you idiot," she says into his shirt as she breathes in the smell of him - cologne, a little scotch, sweat, and that musky sweetness that's just  _him_. "You're never going to lose me."

"Promise?" he asks, his voice a little hoarse.

She squeezes him around the chest. "Promise," she replies firmly, and she feels the tension dissipating as he relaxes in her arms.

He sighs contentedly and pulls the sheets up over them, turning them so that they're both on their sides, his body snug against hers. She can feel his warm breath on the back of her neck and has to suppress a shiver.

"I love you, Min," he says so softly it's almost a whisper.

She smiles, pulling his arm around her and threading her fingers through his. "I love you too, Danny," she says.

(This, she thinks, is why they try.)

* * *

 

_\- and I'll change a little -_

 

She'll never be a good cook, but under Danny's tutelage, she has graduated from ramen and microwave pizzas to helping him prepare the sauce when he makes spaghetti bolognese. She hums a Katy Perry song to herself under her breath as she dices tomatoes, wondering what the Mindy of two years ago would have thought of this: Mindy Lahiri in the kitchen with her handsome doctor boyfriend, cooking dinner.

She probably wouldn't have believed it. She's not sure she believes it now.

She chances a glance over at Danny, who's watching over a simmering pot of sauce (he insists on creating it from scratch even though it takes  _forever_ to blister the skin off tomatoes using the grill and one time she didn't remember to hold down the lid on the blender as they were pureeing and it flew off and hot tomato puree went everywhere and she ended up with a burn on her neck that hurt for  _days_ , for which she will never forgive him even though it was technically her fault). His brow is furrowed in concentration, the same way it is when he's looking over patient files or performing a delivery. She loves that about him - the way he can drop everything and focus on the task at hand, the intensity with which he attacks everything from pap smears to cooking.

But she knows, now, after all this time, that he's not always that way. She knows that she can make him laugh by bellowing Beyonce lyrics into her hairbrush, that he claims he's not ticklish but that he squirms just the tiniest bit when she runs her fingers softly up the sides of his ribcage. She knows every single one of his smiles - that cocky smirk when he's just won an argument, the way he smiles drowsily at her when she insists on waking him up with kisses on a Saturday morning, and that stupid, beautiful lopsided grin he gets on his face when he's done something that's made her happy, like remembering a line from  _The Notebook_ or getting them tickets to that Rihanna concert (how did he even know where to get tickets to things other than Springsteen shows?) or that night long ago, before they started dating, when he gave her that ridiculous (beautiful, perfect) dance for Christmas. She knows the way he -

"Ow!"

Danny looks up, eyes wide with alarm. "Min, what is it?" he asks, rushing over towards her, sauce forgotten.

Mindy looks down and there's a little cut on her index finger. The knife must have slipped while she was daydreaming. Without thinking, she lifts the finger to her mouth and sucks on it, her mouth filling with the copper tang of blood.

"Min, how many times have I told you, you gotta keep your eyes on the knife!" Danny is rummaging through the cupboards for the first aid kid. "And wash that, don't suck on it. I swear to God, Min, sometimes you just - "

He keeps babbling and gesticulating as she runs her finger under cold water, as he applies a band-aid, the tender movements of his hands belying his aggravated tone, as he takes over dicing the tomatoes and tells her to check on the mince instead. She smiles to herself while he's not looking, moves over to the stove, and - 

"Uh, Danny?"

"What is it now, Min?"

"I think the sauce might be burning?"

She knows she shouldn't find this funny, but she has to stifle a giggle at his anguished cry.

They end up ordering take-out that night.

* * *

 

_\- and you'll change a lot_

 

"Come on, Min, there's a Ken Burns documentary on tonight that I really wanna see," Danny says as he rushes them out of the office building and flags down a cab. It's been a long day at work and all he wants to do is get home, collapse onto the couch with his girlfriend and lose himself in  _Warhol, Pop Art and the American Cultural Revolution._  The first two instalments were compelling; he can't wait for the third.

He's wondering what they'll do about dinner when Mindy's voice cuts into his thoughts. "But babe," she protests in a tone that he wouldn't call 'whiny' only because he doesn't want to be punched in the arm (again), "I told you, there's a Bridget Jones marathon on tonight! I haven't seen those movies in  _forever -_ "

"- you watched them last month!"

" - and it's been such a long day and Colin Firth is so  _dreamy_ and how can they even make a documentary about pictures of soup cans into three parts, Danny?  _How?_ What more is there to say?" She adopts a lecturing tone of voice. "'Andy Warhol's pictures of soup cans - "

"- they weren't just _pictures of soup cans_ , they were a statement on the pervasive materialism of American culture!"

" - revolutionised American art by teaching people that art snobs really will buy anything if you can convince them it's deep'." She looks up at him and he wants to be able to refuse those giant brown eyes but he's never been able to and he doubts he ever will.

"Babe, please?" she says plaintively, lower lip wobbling just slightly.  _Damn it_ , she's good. She's like a goddamn Disney princess. Any moment now, woodland creatures are going to appear in this cab and start fawning all over her, he swears.

He sighs and admits defeat. "Fine," he says. "We'll watch your movie - "

" - movies, it's a marathon!"

" - okay, okay, your  _movies_. But I get to pick what we get for dinner."

"But you picked last night!"

"But I'm letting you pick the movie!"

"We're watching Bridget Jones' Diary  _and_ we're getting Chinese," Mindy says decisively, as though the matter is settled. And the funny thing is, Danny thinks as she rests her head against his shoulder, reading out celebrity gossip headlines to him as she scrolls through her Twitter feed, it is.

And if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't mind one bit.

(She falls asleep halfway through the second film. He finishes watching anyway.)

* * *

 

_you've got to give a little,_

_take a little,_

_let your poor heart break a little -_

_that's the story of,_

_that's the glory of love._ \--"The Glory of Love", Billy Hill and Benny Goodman

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> See? I told you I'd write y'all a happy ending eventually.
> 
> The song at the end, "The Glory of Love", is what plays at the end of _Be Cool_. It's one of my favourite jazz songs. A friend of mine in high school used to enter vocal competitions with that as her big number, and it never failed to be a show-stopper.
> 
> I hope I've made up for all the angst and heartbreak! (Though I'm sure I'll write more of it eventually - I can't help myself, y'know.) Let me know what y'all think: your comments absolutely make my day.


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